


Conquest

by Augustus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-21
Updated: 2002-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A finale. (This is dark fic. Messed up stuff. Don't go looking for fluff here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquest

My hands dart out to break my fall as my foot catches on an obstacle that hadn't been there a moment ago. I don't need to look up to realise what's going on. The stone floor beneath me mirrors the hardness in my eyes as my mouth twists into a derisive sneer.

"Six years and you've still not mastered any new tricks, Malfoy? Grow up."

"And this from the oh-so-adult Harry Potter..."

I look up to meet his gaze. "Your sarcasm wounds me."

Gingerly, I get to my feet, feeling a few twinges of discomfit that will probably colour into bruises within the hour. His smirk has long since become jaded in a face that has changed little over the years. The features perhaps work a little better in an older frame, but arrogance does not fully mask the overall lack of beauty. The lines are too sharp for such eulogies.

"See anything interesting, Potter?" The smirk stretches as he leans back against Snape's recently vacated desk, the movement strangely elegant for a boy of his age.

"Unlikely." I brush a small patch of dust from my robes. "I'm intrigued. Did you have any particular reason for tripping me, or is this just another pathetic attempt to gain my attention?"

His thought processes are shadowed in his eyes as he considers and discards responses. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No?" I reply, discarding my Potions supplies on one of the closest desks. Taking a step forward, I deliberately invade his personal space. "Are you sure? Because this stalker routine is rapidly becoming stale."

"You're deluded, Potter."

I smile and move in a little closer, pressing a hand to his chest. "Am I really? So I would be wrong in suggesting that this - and everything else you've done to me over the years - has been fuelled purely by a desire to possess me?"

He stares at me, silent. His eyes betray his discomfit. It seems he has no cynical comeback for such a blatant challenge.

I recognise the look in his eyes, perceive the opportunity for what it is, and my heart begins to pound at the prospect of the ultimate retribution, the ultimate conquest. My hand drops to his waistband and I smile.

"What makes you believe that I don't want the same thing? Harsh words can hide a multitude of emotions... Draco."

The use of his first name has the desired effect. "What do you mean?" he asks slowly.

I smile, letting it drift across my face, then turn to cast a quick locking spell on the classroom door. "This," I murmur, my grin broadening, then pull him towards me and kiss him.

His lips are cool at first and surprisingly soft. For a few seconds, he remains frozen within my arms, but then it is almost as though he sinks right into me, and we become a tangle of mouths and limbs and heat that cannot help but collapse onto the icy stone of the floor.

If I had needed a confirmation of his feelings, I find it in his kiss and in the way his hands comb through my hair before coming to rest upon my shoulder blades. Victory seems unavoidable in this moment, and I allow myself to deepen the kiss. It soon becomes a little too pleasurable, however, so I pull away, not wanting to ruin my plan by allowing a few rogue hormones to cloud my judgement. 

As I collect myself, his eyes trail over my face and body, his breathing loud and uneven. "I never knew," he murmurs finally, raising an unsteady hand to his lips. "Six fucking years, and I never knew."

"Perhaps I play the game better than you." It was not so much a suggestion as a statement.

His hand drops and his mouth suggests the beginnings of a smile. "It was never a game for me."

And, with those seven words, I achieve what I couldn't in six years of sparring. A triumph, an ending and, ultimately, his destruction. The knowledge is sweet. The knowledge that _I_ am his undoing is sweeter still.

The power overwhelms me.

We kiss again, but it is no longer enough - not for Malfoy, not for me and not for the construction I am weaving. My fingers twist within his hair, scrape red nail-marks over his neck and then busy themselves with the task of undressing him. His surprise is amusing but rapidly overcome. Not for us the slow burn of seduction or the romance of courtship. His need is intense; my goal is overwhelming. I intend to have him, to claim him, to own him. Just as he wishes to own me.

His body is smooth. As smooth as I have imagined. I kiss it. I map its lines with my hands and breathe light whispers over his skin until his eyes shut from the tension and his unwillingness to watch my progress.

In turn, I pretend not to be moved by his pale temptation, pretend not to notice the way my chest heaves in a perfect mirror of his own. His nipples fascinate me, their colour providing a stark contrast to the surrounding pallor. I taste them, pleased with the rewarding gasp of pleasure that reaches my ears. He arches into the warmth of my mouth and I encourage his enthusiasm with a gentle nip at each before I abandon them in order to reclaim his lips. He laughs into the kiss, disbelieving. I remove my tie and smile.

He touches me now, works trembling fingers beneath my robes and slides them from my body as though he has done this a thousand times. When soft hands slide across my flesh, however, there is no bored austerity in the way they document the shape of me. The autumn air is cold as it caresses my bare torso. The sensation teases my perception.

The feel of his flesh against my own is different to any other and I savour it, savour the knowledge that it is my enemy who lies pressed against me, my enemy who gasps in between kisses, eyes glossy with stupid wonder. It shouldn't be this easy - but it is. Too easy to ignore all thought of emotion, too easy to forget that it is not only about the sex with this one, that it is about breaking him. 

And I can see the cracks already.

Where is the arrogance, the egotism, when he stretches into my touch, asks silently for more than I have already given him? This is not my smirking tormentor, and yet I think it is more him than he has ever been. I know what he wants from me. I give him a fraction of the total.

He is hot beneath my fingers. In my thoughts, he was always cool - in body as well as demeanour. The reality startles me for a moment, just as it seems the contact shocks him, a tight moan escaping his lips. I discover his shape and texture, trailing gentle fingers over his erection while I watch his face. I observe the twitch of his jaw, a silent plea for more, for release from my game. I do not grant it. Not until his eyes meet mine, resigned.

"Potter..."

I shake my head. "It's not that easy," I tell him. I lift my hand, leaving it close enough that he must feel its presence, although not its actual weight.

"What?" He frowns, not understanding.

"Tell me you want this. Tell me you want _me_." I hold my face only a fraction above his own, lips almost touching. " _Beg_ me, Malfoy. Beg me to touch you."

A touch of the familiar pride creeps back into his features. "I never beg."

"It's your choice." Smiling smugly, I roll from him, removing my weight and my comfit. I pluck at the pile of my discarded clothes, awaiting a response.

"Harry..." He looks at me as though torn between desire and the person he has always tried to be. If it wasn't for me, he might have succeeded. And yet here he is. Wanting me. And so close to admitting it.

"Yes?"

He closes his eyes against the words. "I want this. I want _you_. I always have done."

"Not so hard, was it?" I kneel over him, looking down at the silvery shadow of his eyelids. "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

His lashes twitch. His voice is a whisper. "Touch me. Please touch me."

The cracks widen.

I take him into my hand, stroke him until the humiliation of my demands is pushed into the back of his consciousness, although never truly banished. His fingers clench around the rough edges of the stones to either side of him. I laugh and then I bend forward to surround his firmness with my mouth.

His taste is not unpleasant, although different in a way I cannot place. As I run my tongue lightly, teasingly over his shaft, I can feel his body tense beneath me, his thigh tightening between the weight of my hand. His hips jerk towards me, quiet whimpers escaping his mouth as my practised abilities are confirmed.

I wonder if he is truly as experienced as he would have the world believe; his reactions suggest otherwise. The spiral begins as he thrusts himself deeper into my mouth, perhaps through some misguided attempt to choke me, perhaps nothing more than an unfettered reflex. The power rises within me, threatens to overflow.

His orgasm seems to surprise him, widening his eyes and moulding reddened lips into a breath-tangled sigh that could almost be my name. His features soften with the release, sharp lines becoming smooth - almost beautiful. The ice in heavy-lidded eyes melts as he reaches out a hand to dazedly trace the line of my jaw. It is a familiar touch, and I find it hard not to push him away. 

This is not about familiarity, certainly not about intimacy. This is conquest. And something in the sudden darkening of his eyes suggests that Malfoy has finally realised what he has done.

My enemy is sated, but this is not how it ends. He is mine now, cowed by the memory of his surrender and boneless with the aftermath of orgasm. And it would be a victory to simply leave him here - in this place, this moment - and demonstrate my disinterest. To show him that the weakness is entirely his own, that my actions were nothing but torturous retribution for what has come before. 

But I am hard and aching for my own release and he is here and warm and just fucking _looking_ at me as though I've both broken him and saved him in the one instant. 

And so I kiss him again, press hard into his lips and his body and bury my soul and my need in the sleepy-lazy glide of his tongue against my own. He reaches down, as though to take me into his hand, but I am not interested in second hand masturbation, nor in the submission that could be found in his mouth and the incongruous picture of those pale, cultured lips wrapped around my own desperate desire.

I clasp his hand in mine, crushing the fingers until the action produces a shocked gasp, then pressing them against the ground at my side, pinning his wrist to the stone with my weight. I claim and disable his other hand similarly, while I reaffirm my ascendancy through the tangle of lips and the semi-reflexive grind of body on body.

I drop my head, biting, drawing blood and a smothered whimper that is thwarted by the reclaiming of swollen lips. His arms twist beneath my hands, the need to touch me strong within him. His interest may have been vaguely flattering, were I not so single-minded. 

As it is, I let him believe he has achieved a partial victory, releasing one arm so that I may free my own. His hand goes straight to my hair, twisting within its lengths, while mine drops in an attempt to tease some renewed interest from his spent penis. He must still be sensitive from orgasm, as he jerks beneath me, mouth pausing mid kiss.

I lighten my touch and he relaxes a little, oddly trusting of one who's only ever spoken to him in hate. I want to take such trust and tear it into a million pieces, to take _him_ and rend him into nothingness. But there are ways and there are means and for now the weight of his gaze speaks of nothing but what can - what _will_ \- be.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, I moisten a finger and then bury it within him, as I muffle his gasp of pain and surprise with my mouth. He tenses beneath me, muscles twitching their protest against the sudden invasion. I smile into his lips, tingling with the knowledge that he is defenceless to resist me, that on one level he wants - _needs_ \- this, just as his baser instincts shy from the alien sensations.

The whisper of fear in his eyes reveals that I will indeed be his first. The mask of bravado has long since been torn from him or, perhaps, wilfully discarded. And he seems so much younger in this moment. The thought only serves to arouse me more and I rapidly discard all semblance of care and sensitivity as I work my finger within him, more interested in my own ease than the prevention of his discomfit.

A second finger stretches him further, causes him to buck beneath me when it scrapes across his prostate. Now it is his turn to smile, perhaps deluded into believing that I care for his pleasure.

This is not about him. It is about proving a point, about breaking him and defusing his influence. It could be anyone's body pressed against my own and I would feel still feel this way, drunk on the power I take and am given, maddened by the moment and the scent of finality in the air. And, as I lift limp limbs and finally, harshly enter him, I close my eyes. Not to block his pain but to vanquish his familiarity and the beauty of his vulnerability.

I break him and he lets me. Perhaps he is foolish enough to think he loves me. The truth is irrelevant. All that matters is the feel of him around me and the knowledge that this is him and this is victory. 

My eyes flicker open to savour the intensity of his expressions. I doubt that it is good for him, although his eyes express a pathetic willingness to give just as he has received. 

I wonder whether he realises how little this means to me beyond the thrill of the ultimate conquest. That I may be his first, but he is merely one of many for me. An achievement not unlike saving the world again, or gaining a good mark in class. Just as Ron was an achievement when he huddled tight within my arms, whispering of devotion and gratefulness. A mistake, admittedly, but a triumph nonetheless, snatched from Hermione's grasp. A trophy.

The friction as I thrust deep within him screams of the pain I am surely causing, but he must actually be enjoying the assault, as his free hand presses me closer still, his hips rising to meet me, completely hard again against my stomach. With my free hand, I grab him, roughly gripping and teasing his erection. The pleasure-pain sends erratic shudders throughout his body, his internal muscles twitching around me and pushing me closer to my release.

He draws me down to kiss me, breath hissing a protest as I push him away, my eyes closing as I focus only on the sensation of the moment. I barely notice as he comes, spurting hot fluid over my chest, simply let the growing fire inside me consume my everything. I thrust once, twice, bury myself within him and my own orgasm claims me. 

I collapse onto the cushion of his body, my breathing ragged as my heart rate gradually slows. He drifts soft lips against my neck, whispering syllables that might be my name. His arms do not so much surround as claim, and I feel suddenly claustrophobic. 

It is as though the situation is threatening to slip from my grasp. Dazed and satisfied, a treacherous part of me desires only to hold and be held. I cast it to one side and roughly untangle myself from his body and his grasp.

"What?" He looks at me with confused eyes, still lying curled and broken on the stone floor.

"I'm leaving. That's what."

"But..." His brows twist into a frown and he nods slowly. "I guess so."

I stand and walk to the door, reversing the locking spell.

His voice is halting. "Can we... do this again sometime, Harry?"

I turn to look at him. "Not likely, Malfoy. You were a dreadful lay. It was barely worth the effort of you so blatantly throwing yourself at me."

Something within me catches, thwarting my stoicism, as his entire face and body seem to fold in upon themselves. The lines of his face crumple into softness as my words hit their mark. I've never seen him look so beautiful, never felt him tug so strongly at my conscience. But I refuse to care. Force myself to bathe in his humiliation and distress and in the complete destruction of his being.

"I hate you, Potter," he whispers, but the words are more a plea than an insult. They are meaningless now. He knows it is over. Knows he has been conquered.

"You're not worth the effort of hating," I reply calmly.

I watch him shatter, and then leave before my heart is torn in two.

**21-02-2002**


End file.
